


Open Season

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [5]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Autobots and Terrorcons battle one last time for control of the Global Space Bridge! Snarl and Koji make their dash for freedom! Sky Shadow makes Downshift a most indecent proposal! And, high above it all, a strange meteor changes course and makes a beeline toward Earth! The trials, tribulations and conspiracies of <i>Transformers: Distant Thunder</i> impact upon our warring cast-members - and no one's survival is guaranteed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Now:

_My name is Ultra Magnus. I’m commander of the earthbound Autobot forces – the Research, Infiltration and Defence units. I’m one half of the Binary Spark; tied by birth and destiny to the primal forces that birthed the Transformer race. I am referred to, by friends and foes alike, as the Autobots’ greatest warrior… an unconquerable enemy._

_I am also about to die._

_I have, in my right hand, the greatest weapon in my army’s arsenal. It can fire Teflon-coated, titanium-cored bullets. It can launch surface-to-air missiles. It can erupt with thousands of volts of crackling blue energy. And that’s just in its normal form – like my body, my weapon can transform. Once altered, it can interface with the Blue Planet Key – a potent, ancient artifact – and become a force of almost unrivalled destructive power._

_That weapon can’t help me._

_My chassis is one of the strongest and most potent ever created. Forged in the fires of our god, Primus, it possesses remarkable strength, incredible speed and blinding dexterity. There is virtually no object over which, in vehicle mode, I cannot roll. There exists no known opponent that, in robot mode, I cannot match… and defeat._

_That body is useless to me._

_Almost unrivalled. Virtually no object. No known opponent. These caveats… these flaws… these chinks in my armour consume my every thought. Because, until now, I was unaware of them. Until now, I paid no mind to weaknesses. Until now, I had no reason to compare my abilities against those of another for fear of finding myself wanting._

_Until now, when I am about to die._

_I will die because the enemy before me defies all natural laws – be they of Earth or Cybertron. My enemy is no longer a being but a force of nature. One does not defeat a force of nature; one does not turn back the tide. One can only rally against it, for as long as possible, and then fail._

_My name is Ultra Magnus. I am a soldier, a leader, a warrior. In a few moments, I will be naught but a smouldering corpse._

\-----

Twenty-four hours ago…

“You would leave an entire pack as nothing more than smouldering corpses?” 

Snarl’s lupine features were set, his toothy jaw grinding with anger. Magnus sighed deeply. After all this time, and all these arguments, he _should_ have been used to the fight. But it never got any easier. The white wolf of Animatros seemed completely incapable of accepting any view point besides his own. 

“No one is going to die, Snarl,” he explained. “That’s not the goal of this mission.” 

“Deprive a beast of air and they are as good as dead,” the other growled. “The breath of life is sacred – a concept I’m sure eludes one of your… mechanical purity.” 

“We’re not going to kill them,” Magnus repeated, the exasperation clear in his voice. “Downshift’s inventions will render the Terrorcons unconscious so that we can capture them. Then, we can transport them to Cybertron where they can be imprisoned.” 

“Pah,” Snarl waved him away. “You fail to understand the forces with which you meddle. Worse, you lack the honour to express your intentions truly.” He locked his yellow optics onto Magnus. “The breath of life is sacred and should only be taken in glorious combat. One does not steal air for personal gain, nor to augment oneself. If you would face the Terrorcons, do so as befits a warrior – treat it not as an experiment.” 

“Gnngh.” Magnus rubbed his face with both hands. He looked up into the sky and counted to ten, trying to lose himself in the unblemished blue heavens. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Snarl, for as little as it matters,” he groused. “When you get right down to it, you’re a non-operational member of this team. A _guest._ I’m informing you as a courtesy, given the Terrorcons’ connections to your home world.”

“How I miss it,” the white Transformer crooned. “A world of battle, of the hunt, of glory and honour. Yes, there were those who fell from those lofty paths but we culled them… or they culled us. Such was the way of Animatros – would that it could be the way of all worlds! I miss the feeling of belonging somewhere.”

“Whether or not you agree with our course of action,” Magnus continued, “is immaterial.” 

Snarl rumbled low in his synthesiser. “Then I assume this conversation has ended,” he snapped. With a whirl of parts he assumed his beast mode, then bared his golden fangs. “I am indebted to you, Ultra Magnus. For now, I am fully appraised of my place within this army of yours… and can therefore chart my future direction.” He loped away. 

“Dammit,” Magnus hissed, clenching his fists. He didn’t pretend to understand his colleague – never had – but Snarl’s last comment was even more mysterious than usual. Not for the first time, he took comfort in the knowledge that the wolf had no way of exiting Fortress Maximus or its surrounds. 

The beast wasn’t actually an RID unit – he was classified as such only because of the need for security. Snarl never left the base. He couldn’t; his alt mode made that obvious. While a human mind could forgive a larger-than-usual car carrier, or a half-tank missile truck in midtown, it could scarcely accept a 40 foot-tall ivory wolf as normal. Snarl wasn’t, therefore, equipped with a resonance circuit. Such a device would have vibrated in tune with the Force Chip shard that temporally displaced the base. That meant he, like the base, was stuck one second out of phase with the rest of the world. 

Magnus had, from the start, taken great pains to inform Snarl of those facts. Still the beast had insisted on joining the Earth mission in order to “escape the sterility” of Cybertron. To make matters worse, Red Alert had seconded the idea. The medic and chief surgeon feared Snarl’s presence on the Transformer home world – so utterly foreign to his previous life of trees, vast plains and dense jungles – endangered his very sanity. The wolf’s erratic behaviour after the Planet Key quest… his outburst at Tow-Line’s funeral… seemed to bear out those fears. 

_Hooray for us,_ Magnus thought to himself. _I thought having Bulkhead under my command was frustrating. By comparison, those were halcyon days._

He transformed, thundered up the base’s entrance ramp and made for Downshift’s lab. The engineer had broken his self-imposed munitions ban “just this once” to create an anti-Terrorcon device because he’d discovered the flaw in their impressive powers. Magnus had no idea what had changed Downshift’s mind… and how much Rodimus had to do with it… but he didn’t care. 

It was a detail – interesting, perhaps, but insignificant in the bigger picture – with which he could and would not concern himself. A decade ago, he would have agonised over the gap in his knowledge, questioning the path he chose because of it. He would have allowed his processor to fill with doubt and drown his self-confidence. He’d have paralysed himself by thinking too much. 

Those days were long gone. Magnus had first trained, then curtailed his extraneous thoughts. As much as Primus had reforged his body, he’d reforged his own mind… completed the transformation from Mini-con to Autobot. Doubt, as Optimus Prime had so often told him, was a luxury those in charge could ill afford. 

“I see the guest of honour has finally decided ta grace us with his presence,” a familiar voice sneered. “Maybe now our resident mad scientist’ll be prepared ta tell us how he’s gonna blow our skid plates ta smithereens this time around!”

Magnus transformed and stepped into the lab. Armourhide – he of the snide welcome – was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded over his boxy chest. The would-be comedian was whole again, thanks to a stint in the CR chamber. Magnus noted Armourhide was keeping his new right arm close to his body, and had covered it with his “original stock” left limb. 

Scattorshot, Jazz and Rodimus were crowded around a bench, muttering happily about something. He was surprised to see Koji with them. The human child had spent much of the last few weeks locked in his room, venturing into the best of the base only rarely. Magnus knew the toll this behaviour was taking on Jazz – the good-natured mech blamed himself for Koji’s lack of trust. Given his personal connection to the Jones family, he also felt it was his responsibility to bring the child around and help him understand this new world of “robots in disguise”. It did Magnus’ Spark good to see the smile on Jazz’s face, and how it was mirrored in Koji’s organic features.

Downshift stood a little way back from the group, his expression a disquieting mixture of pride and shame. Magnus considered offering comfort, but dismissed the thought. The engineer had grown more introverted and secretive over the years – his façade was, at times, more stern than Grimlock’s – and even the friendliest of gestures was unlikely to break through to the fun-loving mech he’d once been. 

He joined the group by the bench. Armourhide quickly followed. “How’d it go with ol’ Chopperface?” he murmured. 

“Worse than expected,” Magnus whispered back. 

“Terrific. Even the dog’s mad with us. We ain’t living in a happy home, sweetheart.” 

“Shut up, Armourhide.” 

As Downshift squeezed in to complete the circle, Jazz bent down and scooped Koji onto his shoulder. All six RID units, and their ally, were together and ready to listen. _If only that meant we were a team,_ Magnus mused.

Irrespective of what Earth meant to him – the promise he’d made to Evac – the gathered Autobots saw RID duty as a means of escaping post-war Cybertron. Whether it be boring peace-time lives, war-time sins or destinies revealed, every one of the mechs was running from something. Each of them had a shame, often a former source of pride, they wanted to forget. _Okay, Scattorshot doesn’t, but the rest do,_ he thought. _I’ve always known that and it’s never mattered. Until now. If we can’t pull together, I fear for this planet._

“Uh,” Jazz said hesitantly. “You’re tellin’ me these things are gonna take down the Terrorcons? Really?” 

“They sure are,” Rodimus grinned. “Those freaks are going to be _so_ surprised.” 

“Oh yeah,” Armourhide sighed. “I mean, da last thing they’re gonna expect is ta die laughing.” 

Magnus peered over the smaller Autobots. He had to admit, the various devices splayed across the workbench were less than impressive. Certainly, there were pale shadows of the ballistic beauties Downshift had constructed in the past. 

“They’re not _that_ bad,” the engineer muttered. “And they’ve been produced on short notice, remember. Plus the materials I’ve got to work with…” 

“Poor workmen an’ tools,” Armourhide quipped.

“Simmer down,” Scattorshot growled. Magnus knew his second-in-charge had very little patience for sarcasm, having been a target of it for so many vorns. “How ‘bout we let the mech explain his work ‘fore we start rippin’ on it?”

Koji tapped his chin thoughtfully. “They kinda look like the guns Daniel and I… sorry, _Jazz_ and I… used in our computer games,” he said, prompting an appreciative grin from the Autobot. “You know, snub-nosed barrels and bulky stocks.” His face grew concerned. “But they were short-range weapons.”

“So are these,” Downshift said.

The response was automatic and disapproving. Armourhide threw his hands in the air, then slapped them hard on his face. Jazz frowned, one metal eyebrow arching in disbelief. Koji’s mouth hung open. Scattorshot all but slumped in place, like someone had drained the Energon from his frame. Rodimus’ steel skin flushed with heat… with embarrassment… and as it cooled, so did his attitude.

“How short is their range?” Magnus asked in measured tones.

Downshift shrugged. He was obviously uncomfortable. “A couple of metres, at best.”

“You just said a couple o’ _hundred_ metres, right?” Armourhide asked. “Because if you just said dese things only work from a couple o’ metres, like under 10, you’ve guaranteed we’re all gonna get slagged before da end of da day!”

Magnus understood his pain. The conflict between the RIDs and Terrorcons was young but, already, Armourhide had suffered the most. Though Divebomb, the enemy who’d sliced off his arm, was in custody, the commando still felt he had a score to settle with the rest of the “True Path”. Add to that the fact his severed limb had been stolen – likely by the Terrorcons, for purposes unknown – and you had one furious, uncompromising, slightly scared Autobot.

“Calm down,” he ordered, waving a hand for emphasis. “It doesn’t really matter that much. Suffocating the Terrorcons was never going to be enough to bring them down – this is an aid, a way of weakening them so conventional weaponry can do some damage.”

Armourhide snorted. “Easy t’say when you’re twice their height and armed to the teeth.”

There was a short, sharp noise as Scattorshot banged his fist on the table. “A’right, ah’ve had just ‘bout enough o’ that,” he yelled, silencing Armourhide with a glare. “If this’ what we got ta take on the ‘cons, it’s what we got. Switch off yer synthesiser, strap on yer new gun and roll out!” 

He tucked one of the designs under his right arm and strode purposefully toward the central assembly point. Rodimus’ grin widened as he followed suit. Jazz and Downshift went next. Magnus – still impressed by his protégé’s stance – was suddenly alone with Armourhide. 

“Worst thing you ever did,” the commando grumbled, “was givin’ dat chump a leadership role.” 

“Actually, it was one of my better decisions,” Magnus sneered. “You wouldn’t believe the wear and tear I’ve saved my synthesiser, now that someone else calls you on your garbage.” He reached down and took the largest of the new guns, threw its strap over one shoulder and walked away, leaving the little mech to his muttered curses.

A glimmer of movement caught his optic. He turned – Koji was kneeling by the lab’s doorway. For one outrageous moment, Magnus thought he saw a tool in the child’s hand. But that was impossible, surely. “You all right?” he asked, dismissing the thought.

Koji was red-faced. “Jazz put me down and I slipped,” he explained. “Guess I’m not used to the vibrations you guys put out when you start running all over the place.” He picked himself off, dusting the knees of his jeans. “I’m fine, Ultra Magnus.”

“Good to know,” Magnus said. “After all, if you’re not in perfect health when your parents get back, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “My parents?”

“If these new weapons work, Koji, we’ll be able to take down the Terrorcons by the end of the day,” he said confidently. “From there, it’s a simple matter of tracking their path from their base and, once there, freeing Kicker and Misha.” He stooped, running one giant finger affectionately over the boy’s head. “This is almost over, soldier. I promise.”

Koji was beaming. “I know, Magnus,” he said, one hand patting his jeans pocket. “I can tell you that I honestly believe this is all about to end.”

\-----

Twenty hours ago…

“Magnificent.”

Predacon’s saurian eyes roamed the interior of the Global Space Bridge, his gaze caressing every curved archway. Rainbow hues from the walls – brilliant in the half-light – shimmered over his tan-and-green metalwork. Goose pimples rose on his fleshy sections as endorphins flowed through an intricate, inter-connected network of fuel lines and veins. Rarely had the master of the Transmetal process… the high priest of the True Path… felt such elegant satisfaction.

“No, not magnificent… masterful,” he whispered in a reverential tone. “Who would have believed the Autobots – a race so closed-minded to the beauty of technorganics – could create such fitting tribute to the True Path?” He stomped across to one of the walls and trailed a two-fingered hand across its smooth surface. “Yes,” he breathed. “You have done well, my disciples, in securing such a glorious asset.”

Keen ears picked up the sound of shuffling behind him. “Um, Predacon?” came a halting, nervous voice. One of his devotees was uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand how a tunnel system could be a tribute to our ways?

The metallic Tyrannosaur turned around… slowly and deliberately… and fixed the speaker with a blood-red gaze. “Ah, Insecticon,” he sneered. “Forever the Doubting Thomas, as the humans would say. Thanks to my science, your compound eyes possess vision unparalleled amongst our ranks. Yet can you see the brilliant, glowing Path that stands before you? No. You are so achingly blind.”

He sighed and transformed. His long, segmented tail became a crackling energy whip, and he swirled it casually. The green weapon swished through the air as he walked, closer and closer, to Insecticon. The gruesome little troll flinched, curling around on himself, legs twitching helplessly.

Predacon leaned down, pressing his face right against that of his hapless troop. “Look closely,” he growled, “at the _blending_ of two worlds. Yes. It’s all around you.” He straightened up but left the whip threateningly close to Insection’s stunted form. “The Autobots have carved veins and arteries of steel and technology into the very bedrock of this planet. They have connected forest to city, desert to ocean, as surely as tendons link muscle and bone. Earth has evolved through their actions, becoming _just a little_ technorganic. That provides us with a foot-hold for our agenda, and it will be of immense benefit as our endgame approaches.”

“Oh,” Insecticon whispered, his voice hoarse with concern. “Now I see.”

“I’m sure you do,” Predacon said evenly. He stepped away, retaking his beast form as he moved. “Though your questioning ways are an annoyance, Insecticon, they serve as stark reminder of the ignorance that exists in this universe. You are a case example of how blinkered a Transformer can be until someone broadens its horizons. What you must remember is that you are one of those who will grab at the optics of the sightless and _stretch_ them, unswayed by pity and mercy, until they weep lubricant with joy at the vista suddenly revealed to them.”

He looked back and smiled, row upon row of vicious teeth glinting in the multi-coloured light. “ _Those who cannot see the way fall to the side and become as prey,_ ” he said. “So it is written, so shall it be.”

“Praise the Path,” came the chorus, as expected. Skid-Z, Wreckloose, Battle Ravage and Sky Shadow were the sort of mechs that warmed his heart – devout believers whose processors were filled with faith, not doubt.

He heard Insecticon mutter the reprise, noted the disdain in his voice. Long had Predacon harboured concerns over the psychological warfare specialist; he resolved to raise them with Cruel Lock, upon his return from Cybertron, and have them… _investigated._ His second-in-command had done such a masterful job extracting Wheeljack and Crumplezone from the Autobot prison. The velociraptor would likely find extracting the truth from a bug little challenge.

“My lord.” Wreckloose was in robot mode, his head pressed to the ground. The tracker’s hands were splayed over the concrete, searching out vibrations. “Vehicles,” he growled, his odd-shaped jaw working the word as if it were a curse. “Seven… no, six. One is so large it sounds like two.”

“Ultra Magnus and the rest of his loser patrol,” Skid-Z cackled.

Predacon paused to regard his smallest soldier. In many ways, Skid-Z was the most devout of his legions. The tragedy was that, of all the True Path, the Mini-con was one of but two who were incompatible with the Transmetal process. Like the idiotic Buzzsaw, the brown car’s systems rejected any flesh grafted to his form. Predacon remained unsure if this was due to some difference in Mini-con biology or some nebulous science he had yet to discover.

The problem did not reduce Skid-Z’s usefulness to the cause but it did lessen his standing on the Path. As a result, and in spite of his value and his loyalty, Predacon counted the little mech among the first he’d sacrifice for his goals. He was, after all, doomed to an eternity of imperfection.

“Just because they retreated last time doesn’t make them losers, Skid-Z,” he admonished. “Were we talking about Grimlock, or someone equally pig-headed, I might be tempted to agree. But Ultra Magnus is no fool – indeed, he is a tactician nearing Cruel Lock’s brilliance. Underestimate him at your peril.”

“Yes, lord,” Skid-Z replied, suitably cowed.

“How far?” Predacon asked Wreckloose.

“A few kilometres, no more than 10,” the moose lizard replied. He stood up and hefted his antler shield. “Orders?”

“We could spread out like we did last time, then spring out of the gloom,” Insection offered. “You could let Battle Ravage take point and shred the tyres out from under the Big Bot.”

The metallic jaguar growled. Not for the first time, Predacon wished Divebomb had been present to translate for his long-time partner. Still, the meaning was clear – he who was most dangerous among the Path strongly disagreed with the tactical suggestion.

“No,” Predacon said simply. “We stand and fight, form a solid beach-head. Magnus will expect the same hit-and-run tactics, relying on his newfound ‘experience’ to catch us unawares. With one of his own so horribly injured, he will be loathe to ask his mechs to fight us one-on-one, in close quarters. And so we shall force just such a confrontation.” He leered horribly. “Let’s see how flexible the Autobots’ greatest warrior really is. Yes.”

Skid-Z leaped into the air and transformed. A bolt of energy sizzled from his Powerlinx port and tethered itself to Predacon. Seconds later the two mechs fused together, their powers greatly amplified. The True Path leader flexed his legs and bared his teeth, ready for the onslaught. Wreckloose and Sky Shadow remained in robot mode, aiming their weapons down the tunnel. Battle Ravage readied his back-mounted canons while Insecticon, now in beast mode, trained his quad-barrelled mini-gun on the sound of approaching engines.

A sound which, all of a sudden, stopped… then resumed, softer than before.

“Analysis?” Predacon asked.

Wreckloose scrunched up his face. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Hmmph.” Predacon turned his attention back down the tunnel. He savoured the feel of the Powerlink with Skid-Z, drawing on chaos-birthed energy. It was not as reliable as that given by a Force Chip, but it would have to do. He’d discarded his personal totem on Animatros in exchange for the Green Planet Key. Now he no longer possessed the primal artifact, he’d realised what a poor decision that had been.

The engine noise grew closer and louder. As one, the followers of the True Path peered into the gloom. The only illumination came from the colourful walls, however, and it was not enough to reveal what came for them. Louder and louder grew the sound until they had to shout to one another just to be audible.

“I can’t see anything,” Insecticon cried.

“My sensor package might...” Sky Shadow began.

It was too late. A massive white shape cleaved the darkness, like a knife, and was upon them.

Finally, Predacon understood what had happened. The Autobots had _boarded_ Ultra Magnus’ vehicle mode and _ridden_ him into the thick of the fray. Rodimus and the other fools were clutching onto the struts of the carrier trailer, or surfing on the top of its upper ramps, as they took aim at the Terrorcons with unfamiliar weapons. And yet they still did not fire. Predacon activated his roller skates and slipped backward, clearing a path from Magnus’ battering ram approach. He saw his mechs follow suit, darting to either side of the colossal truck.

That was the moment the Autobots chose to strike. “Light ‘em up,” Magnus roared, and the odd-looking guns erupted. From some came long, thin Energon tendrils; others fired thick, viscous bubbles made from an unfamiliar orange substance. Armourhide had his weapon trained on Predacon, and the tyrannosaur could feel it _pulling_ at him like the vacuum of space.

Coughing and spluttering, he glanced at his troops. Battle Ravage was clawing at a glowing noose that had ensnared his neck. But his every motion served only to pull it tighter. Four or five of the bubbles had burst on Insecticon’s elongated snout – the bug was sluggish and fighting to stay upright. Sky Shadow was darting through another cloud of orange mush, shooting bubbles out of the air as soon as he saw them. Wreckloose had managed to tangle another noose around his wrist, rather than his neck, but inertia was pulling him toward that same blasted load of airborne muck.

He gasped, tiny arms reaching for his throat. Realisation ran through him, sending bile up his throat and souring his stomach.

“Air,” Predacon choked. So elegantly simple, and yet so alien to a Transformer. The very breath of life that sustained the beings of Animatros was being turned against the True Path by filthy, flawed, imperfect ruffians! They didn’t understand the perfection of the True Path; saw weakness to be exploited where there was only beauty to be admired. He wasn’t just outraged, he was _insulted._

A huge mech loomed over him, its vacuum-weapon at the ready. “You’ve made your big push, Predacon,” Ultra Magnus growled at the suffocating saurian. “I’m here to inform you that it’s our turn to push back.”


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty-two hours ago…

“You succeeded?”

“Oh yeah,” Koji smiled. He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Mom and Dad dragged me around enough mining sights over the years for me to know my rocks. That one’s so volcanic it’d stop _three_ steel doors from closing.”

He stared at the hard, black chunk. It wasn’t very big – he’d been able to carry it snugly in his jacket pocket – but it was perfect for the job.

“Thankfully,” Snarl murmured, kneeling down, “we have but one such barrier to our goals. Your industriousness has served us well, cub.”

The boy beamed. He felt warm inside. It was amazing how one word – three simple letters – lifted his spirits. _Cub._ From the moment Snarl had first used the term, back when they were planning this operation, it had given him a sense of belonging. That was a feeling he’d missed… it took Snarl to show him how much.

The corridors of Fortress Maximus were empty. Save for the gentle background humming of machinery, they were also silent. _One thing about living with a bunch of robots,_ Koji mused, _is that you can always hear their footsteps. It’s a nice change from Mom and Dad… they were so light on their feet you’d think they were part cat or something._

All of the Autobots were gone, having scurried away to make the universe safe for toasters or whatever it was they did. Koji knew they weren’t out saving his parents. It didn’t matter what Ultra Magnus said – it was clear the big robot was more concerned with smashing his enemies than with locating terrified humans.

No, there was only one robot on the face of the planet that gave a damn about the Jones family… the white wolf of Animatros.

He edged a little closer to Snarl and the laboratory door. He’d been told about Downshift’s redundant systems, pass codes, combinations and total paranoia. He’d also been told all of those safeguards worked _once the door had closed._ Which meant the key to getting past the defences was to make sure the door stayed open.

The departing Autobots would have thought the lab had locked shut behind them In truth, the door had slid into the rock – the world’s smallest organic doorjamb – and stopped, leaving a _teeny tiny_ gap between the bolt and the lock. It was too small for Koji to squeeze through, yes, but that wasn’t the plan. Not at all.

Snarl flexed his right arm. His fist opened and closed with the snapping of jaws and the scraping of fangs, because it was actually the head and neck of his beast mode. He held the arm out toward the door, lupine teeth gritted. A gentle green glow filled the silent corridor, brightest at the base of the animal-like skull.

Koji watched, amazed, as the beast’s Force Chip shimmered into existence. It was the second time he’d seen one of the artifacts but he was still awestruck. It made perfect sense, to him, that such fantastic forces were contained in something as simple as a flat disc. If he’d learned anything from his video games, it was that the shape of a vessel had little to do with its power.

The silver-trimmed disc slotted into the wolf’s head as emerald energy coursed through Snarl’s body. He growled happily, enjoying the rush, and snorted once. The hand/head’s lower jaw opened. It was more like a snake than a dog, as if it had dislocated from its hinges. As the jaw moved down and back, two gleaming fangs extended from the top row of teeth. The hideously curved, golden teeth – almost tusks – looked like they could puncture anything. Not that they had to – the beast was far too clever to leave any evidence of their master plan.

Snarl turned his head/hand sideways. With one fluid motion, he slipped the fangs into the gap between the door and the wall then threw all his weight to one side. The door groaned out a protest but began to move, creaking back over its slide and retracting into the wall. It fought him all the way – hydraulics versus hydraulics – but the wolf would not be denied. Snarl opened his mouth and let loose a final howl of triumphant exertion as the door vanished into the opposite wall. Their path was clear.

“Wow,” Koji breathed as the green light faded. “I mean, I knew you were strong enough to do that, Snarl, but to actually _see_ it happen…”

“Those of my world are not weak like these Autobots,” the wolf grunted. “We have no need of doors or barriers. Our fists, fangs and fur are our defence. Even the lair of Flame Convoy himself was open to intruders – guards, yes, but no doors – to allow confrontation at any time. If something was precious, one guarded it with his own life rather than trusting it to inanimate objects.”

The boy nodded. “It’s not just the Autobots,” he murmured. “Sometimes I think this whole world’s so obsessed with security because it’s so afraid of confrontation.”

Snarl’s nose wrinkled. “Fear is a foolish emotion,” he sniffed. “It shows lack of respect for _huntnomore,_ for death. The cessation of one’s existence is not a tragedy unless it happens without honour, the continuation of life no cause for celebration unless it is lived right.” He smiled suddenly. “There is much my people could teach yours.”

“Then let’s get you out of here so the lessons can begin,” Koji grinned back. “My folks and I’ll be your first students.”

\-----

Twenty hours ago…

His students were screaming wordlessly.

Predacon fancied he felt their agony more than his own. Rage was numbing his torment better than any anaesthetic. But his followers, his beloved True Path, had no such balm. Too consumed were they by horror; by their unprecedented need for air.

The Autobots were revelling in this terror, he felt. So bitter were they, so ashamed by their repeated defeats, they attacked like jackals. Putrid science had choked the very life from the Path as surely as vermin could ravage a healthy pack. Not even he could fight the unflinching vacuum of Armourhide’ new weapon - it drove him to his knees before Ultra Magnus.

Breathing. It was not an aspect of the Transmetal process with which Predacon had been greatly concerned. He’d pioneered the technique in the vorns following his crash-landing on Animatros. Until his arrival, the natives had been forced to take on beast modes in order to venture outside the protection of their ship, the _Ark._ Newly-reformatted, his vehicle mode replaced by the beauty of reptilian life, Predacon had turned his mind to freeing his people from their limitations.

And it had worked perfectly. Surrounded as they were by the lush forests of the green planet, the Purple Masks had flourished. Metal and flesh had been bonded, allowing Transformers to walk the world on two feet. Mastery of the environment had been granted by a careful melding of steel and organics, and all who opposed the union had been pushed aside by claw, fang and fire.

Now, Predacon realised the secret of his success. Those very forests had given the Transmetals comfort and shelter as surely as had the _Ark._ Oxygen, atmospheres, tropospheres… these were the new barriers, the redrawn boundaries of his race. Not since their elevation to true technorganic status had the True Path been required to operate in space. His students were unprepared for this new struggle.

Therefore, it fell to him to be its equal.

Playing a hunch – grasping at the slimmest of threads – Predacon started to transform. Without the oxygen they craved, muscles and tendons refused to move in time with gears and pulleys. Cramps wracked his body, locking his jaws – both dinosaur and robot – in place and further dragging him down toward the floor. Yet he persisted, determined to break free of the sucking, life-depriving force that enveloped him.

As suddenly as it began, the torment ceased. He’d been right – Armourhide’ weapon had locked on to his dinosaur head. Now, in his robot mode, that organ formed part of Predacon’s back… leaving his true face unmolested. He took a long, deep lungful of sweet air, savoured the shocked look on the Autobots’ faces, and _leaped._

With a snarl of animalistic fury, Predacon set upon one of his adversaries. Though much smaller than Magnus, the priest’s strength was more than equal thanks to his technorganic nature. His hand groped for, then found, his emerald tail-whip and brought it around. The weapon connected savagely with Armourhide’s head and shoulders, driving him away. Stomping to further unbalancing Magnus, Predacon succeeded in making him topple. The saurian rode his expansive chest like a surfboard until the big mech hit the ground with a thunderous clang.

“Battle Ravage… Insecticon,” Predacon called, stomping again for good measure. “Long have I told you to free your inner beast from its mechanical cage. Now I bid you turn cage into _shield_ and decimate these foul heathens!”

The jaguar reacted instantly. His pained wail echoed through the Global Space Bridge eerily. Battle Ravage began to transform, taking on his seldom-seen robot mode. His beast head flipped around and slotted into his torso, taking the glowing noose with it, as his original head slipped into place between his shoulders. There was precious little difference between Battle Ravage’s forms – he stood upright and was vaguely humanoid, instead of being on all fours – thus was he vicious either way.

Scattorshot might not have known that before, but the dwarf certainly did now. As Predacon watched, his most prized soldier shimmied and twisted. The noose cracked like a whip and lifted Scattorshot from his feet. Battle Ravage closed the gap instantly, setting upon his short-sighted foe with claws and spiked mace.

Insecticon was slower off the mark but just as successful. His gears made a horrific grinding noise as they squeezed his armoured plates together. The orange bubbles suffocating his snout were soon of no use – once he transformed, they were fixed to the back of his head instead – and he was breathing angrily once more. He lashed out, firing all his leg-mounted machine guns at once. Jazz yowled in surprise and ducked behind his shield, bullets raining down on him.

“Splendid,” Predacon crooned, thrilled with his mechs. Perhaps he’d had to revise upwards his opinion of the bug. “Dispatch your would-be captors and see to Wreckloose and Sky Shadow, quickly. Caught as they are in robot mode, transformation may not prove their salvation.”

“Now this is funny,” said a voice below him. He looked down – right into the glowering optics of Ultra Magnus. “That’s twice you Terrorcon flesh bags have felled me like a tree. What you need to remember, though, is that I improvise… and no trick _ever_ works twice.”

Vibrations cleaved through Predacon’s body. He lost his footing and yelped. There was heat, then noise and, before he could fully register, they were _moving._ He realised, as they hurtled down the tunnel, that Magnus had activated his rocket pack and aimed them at a wall.

“You fool,” he yelled. “We’ll both die!”

“No chance,” Magnus roared back. “I’m the one controlling the jets!”

Suddenly, Predacon was airborne. He cried out, arms flailing for purchase. As he tumbled over his own feet, he saw Magnus clinging to the floor of the tunnel. His mighty arms had acted as brakes, stopping them the moment he’d cut power to the rocket pack. He’d turned himself into a giant slingshot.

“A brilliant move,” Predacon muttered, impressed despite his circumstances.

The rainbow walls looked soft but were diamond-hard. Most of what little breath he’d regained was knocked from his body by the impact “Gaah,” he sighed, spitting coolant from his mouth. “Filthy Autobots.” He raised his voice. “Kill them all,” he bellowed… sending a single tooth flying from his mouth and clattering onto the ground.

\-----

Eighteen hours, thirty minutes ago…

The tool clattered off a wall and bounced off the floor, narrowly missing Koji’s head. The boy ducked and covered. “Hey,” he cried, “be careful!”

“At last,” Snarl whispered, ignoring his friend. “I’m finished. How I loathe the wretched finesse required by this blasted science. Still, if it grants me passage from this realm of purgatory, it will have been time well spent.”

Koji frowned. “Us,” he said.

“What?” Snarl barked, arching one lupine eyebrow as he looked down.

“If it grants _us_ passage, it’ll have been worthwhile,” Koji corrected. He could barely keep the pleading tone from his voice. “You’re taking me with you, right?”

“But of course, cub,” the wolf said soothingly. He reached down and, with a single finger, ruffled his hair. “Team work brought us here, so too shall it affect our escape.” He gestured to a freshly-welded segment on his back. “I could not have installed the time dilation circuit without the schematics on this… _computer._ Without your skills, such plans and blueprints would have remained beyond my reach. Truly, we are a formidable team. The Autobots were right to fear our friendship, Koji.”

Again, the boy flushed with warmth and pride. It all felt _so_ right. He and Snarl were perfectly matched – outsiders stuck on the inside of someone else’s world, bound by spirit, purpose and experience. The last time Koji had felt that way was with his best friend, Daniel. But Daniel had been a lie, a fiction creation by Jazz to keep tabs on the boy. Idly, Koji wondered if he’d have such a problem with the deception if someone as honourable as Snarl had been behind it. _He’d have had good reason for tricking me, at the very least._

“It is time,” Snarl breathed.

“Now?” Koji asked.

“And why not?” Snarl swept his arms wide. “I have spent the better part of one of your decades confined within this blasted sphere of no-time… out of phase not only with events, but with nature itself.” He shivered. “It pains me, and pain must end. Better it be through escape than through unearned, lethargic _huntnomore._ ”

“Um,” Koji muttered. “It’s just… well… huh.” How, he wondered, would he explain? _Thing is, I thought we’d be going at night. You know, what with you being a great big metal animal and all, people might panic a little._ “I guess I just thought we’d be picking our time, maybe going stealth.”

The beast snorted. “This world has been veiled by ignorance for too long,” he hissed. “You have said it yourself, Koji – the Autobots do naught but deceive, play-acting warfare for their own ends and not caring what is destroyed in the process. If we are to save your world… if we are to rescue your parents… our actions must be bold and decisive! A public show of force will draw the Terrorcons from their nest and ignite the very combat needed to burn a path to your loved ones.” He paused. “Are you with me, little wolf?”

Koji hesitated. “I am,” he said at last, trusting the sense of belonging he’d felt. “All the way, one hundred per cent.”

“Good,” Snarl said. He transformed and hunkered down, his tail drooping like a bridge. “Climb onto my back, boy. Though I could install the chip, I lacked the skill to wire it into my systems. I cannot activate it by remote.” He smiled, the barest hint of the golden fangs showing. “But _you_ can. I’ve placed a switch on my back… all you need do is flip it as we approach the wall. Simplicity itself.”

“Done deal,” Koji replied. He walked up Snarl’s tail and climbed across his back, straddling the ivory metal just near the switch. It was large – half his own height – and he realised he’d need both hands to flip it. “Just don’t go too fast, okay? I don’t want to fall off as we’re passing through the rock and get stuck inside.”

Snarl actually laughed at that. “I have no intention of allowing that to happen.”

He loped out of the lab and toward the entrance ramp. Koji clung on tight, scrabbling for purchase with his knees and hands. _Don’t lose it now, kid,_ he admonished himself. _Mom and Dad are counting on you._ They moved down the ramp quickly – Snarl gobbling up the distance with long, fluid leaps – and then tore across the grass, headed straight for the wall.

“Ready?” Snarl asked.

Setting his knees in place, Koji wrapped his arms around the switch. “Yes!”

“Now!”

He pulled with all his might. At first he feared the switch would not move, that he was too weak. Finally it jumped in its channel and clicked into place. There was no visible change but, he remembered, there’d been no change when he’d been riding inside Ultra Magnus, either.

A strange thought struck him between the eyes, furrowing his brow. _Unless you pass through that exact spot in the mountain – and have circuits wired to pick up the displacement signal – you’re gonna crash into the rock,_ said the voice of memory. Snarl was now wired for the signal, but Koji wasn’t. And the only reason he’d made it safely through the rock, last time… was because he’d been _inside_ an Autobot.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

“And thus does the light of understanding dawn,” Snarl rasped, his keen ears having missed nothing. “Truly, Koji, you have been a worthy ally and an incredibly useful tool. But my kind is solitary, and I neither need nor desire a cub trailing behind me… nor wish one to alert others to my escape. Rest assured your _huntnomore_ has well and truly been earned with honour, and I shall sing songs to mark your brief but glorious life.” He flexed his shoulders and accelerated. “Farewell.”

Koji’s jaw dropped and his eyes were tearing. He felt his body go rigid. Shock was setting in. _No,_ he urged himself. _Fight it! You’re a sucker, fine, but don’t be a dead sucker! Get off this animal, now!_

There was no time to calculate or plan – the unforgiving rock wall was too close. Koji threw himself from Snarl’s back and hoped for the best. The wolf turned ghostly and vanished into the granite; the boy landed heavily in a clump of bushes. They broke his fall… but, fortunately, none of his bones… even as they scratched and tore at his skin and clothing.

He pushed and pulled his way free. Every part of him ached, but none more so than his heart. Koji had _trusted_ Snarl, had _believed_ he was noble… and he’d paid for it. He’d almost been killed for his stupidity. And now he was alone, trapped, in a bubble out of time. All alone.

With nothing else to do, Koji wept.

\-----

Eighteen hours ago…

Downshift felt like crying. Which was of course impossible for a Transformer… well, maybe not for one of those freaky Terrorcons. Who knew? But that didn’t detract from the sensation. He’d gone against his vow, spent hours slaving over a weapons forge, and for what?

“Yet another stuff-up, that’s what,” he growled.

Scattorshot looked like a scratching post – Battle Ravage had turned the noose into a way of keeping the diminutive lieutenant close enough to tear apart. Wreckloose was using the other noose to garrotte Rodimus. Insecticon barely noticed the carefully-crafted orange bubbles on his back as fended off Jazz’s assaults. Even that little twerp Skid-Z was getting into it – he’d detached from Predacon and was worming all over the downed Armourhide, punching and kicking and generally being irritating.

He spared a glance at the far wall – Magnus and Predacon were laying into one another with abandon. Though far smaller, the Terrorcon leader was well and truly holding his own. _Talk about the zeal of the fanatic,_ Downshift thought, watching the emerald whip slice through the air. Magnus caught it between his hands and pulled, dragging Predacon into his upraised knee. A resounding crack echoed through the enclosed battlefield. Just like every other slamming noise before it for the past few hours.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Downshift told himself glumly. “We’re right back where we started from. The others are getting their jollies pounding on some Decepti-creeps, I’m hanging back out of the action and ruing the day I signed on for this turkey assignment.”

“Some would call you a coward,” hissed a voice in his aural.

Downshift reached for his pulse blaster but a powerful hand snatched his, holding it still. “Calm, my friend, calm,” the voice continued, friendlier this time. “I’m not here to fight you. Such primitive acts are beneath scientists like us.”

The engineer turned around, very slowly, to look at his attacker. A bejewelled helm, crimson eyes and angular features confirmed his suspicions. “Sky Shadow.”

“The same,” the massive Terrorcon replied.

Granted such proximity, Downshift’s curiosity took over. The ‘con had once been totally mechanical but, like his allies, large sections of metal had been replaced with muscle and tissue. It was most obvious across his massive wingspan, which looked less like parts of a plane and more like the outer limbs of a bat. Their texture did not match their appearance – it was mottled and dark purple, with reptilian scales.

“I’ve been reading up on you,” Downshift said, finding his voice again. “You were a prominent neutralist when the war first started. As the fighting got worse you dropped out of sight. Centuries later you turn up and throw down with some little mech on the steps of the Underbase – causing Magnus to take possession of the Blue Planet Key – then promptly vanish again.” He tried to chuckle. “What gives?”

“Trial and error,” Sky Shadow replied. “And it was worth every cycle of hard graft. You see, Downshift, I’ve discovered it… the link.”

“Between?”

“Life and death,” the Terrorcon replied. “Planes of existence forever separated but, through careful application of science, easily connected. Think of it, engineer… a way of contacting the Sparks of the dead. Not through mysticism but by using quantifiable, provable data and processes!”

Downshift snorted.

“Not that crazy when you think about it,” Sky Shadow continued, as if expecting the reaction. “Energy can be neither created nor destroyed, and a Spark is the purest of energies. You can contain one in your body; I can contact one in its post-life state and, most importantly, _bring it back to us._ ”

The Autobot flinched.

“You can see the possibilities as well as I,” the jet nodded, pleased. “My dear friend Overcast… your lost comrade Tow-Line… those who perished in the Unicron Battles, or in the assault on Iacon. I can _forge the link_ to them, Downshift, light the path. But you…” He grinned. “You can build the machine to complete their journey.”

Sky Shadow rose up to his full height, twice that of the Autobot, and offered his hand. “Come with me now, leave this battle and all our foolish ‘allies’,” he whispered, almost seductively. “Let them wallow in the shadows of the past. We’ll illuminate those shadows and bring the lost, the dead, back into the world.”


	3. Chapter 3

Seventeen hours ago…

“Problems?” Rodimus asked lightly.

“Not a one,” Armourhide replied. “Why ever do you ask?”

Four more explosions went off around them. Rodimus leaned backward, feeling Armourhide’s matching pressure on his own spine. The cavalier was firing both of his arm-mounted blasters; the commando has his chest cavity open and vomiting bombs. Back-to-back, they should have been an unstoppable, unapproachable war machine.

_Emphasis on the should,_ Rodimus thought sourly.

“Dis is nuts,” Armourhide spat. “I thought we were gonna suck all da air outta da Global Space Bridge, turn da place into a vacuum. What happened?”

“Design issues, far as I understand it,” Rodimus replied through gritted teeth. “The Build Team made the GSB for constant use, save in the event of planetary disaster. So the doors don’t seal off, and the turbines don’t stop spinning, unless the Earth cracks in half. Hence, we fall back on the throttling weapons.”

“Fat lot a good dey were,” Armourhide moaned.

Things had, as the humans would say, gone pear-shaped. The brilliant plan to choke out the Terrorcons, then hit ‘em while they were weak, had turned into a spectacular failure. The bad guys were back to full strength, having shrugged off their near-strangulations and gone back to their primary goal of slagging Autobots.

In part, Rodimus blamed himself. But only in part. _Assuming we survive this, Downshift and I will be having words,_ he grumbled. _Say… where is the mad scientist, anyway?_ “You seen Downshift?” he asked.

“Not fer a while,” the boxy mech replied. “Dat said, I ain’t seen much of him in any of dese battles. You know he came up outta nowhere last time, tryin’ ta rip out my Spark ‘fer my own good’ after my arm got torn off?” Armourhide sneered. “Didn’t have a scratch on him, I remember… maybe he hides when the Terrorcons turn up.”

Something in Rodimus’ engine wrenched. Could Downshift – the mad scientist, the daredevil driver – have lost his edge? It might explain a lot, especially him turning away from weaponry. The cavalier knew his friend had been changed by Tow-Line’s death, but such an idea spoke of far deeper, more worrying, alterations.

“We’ve gotta find him,” Rodimus said, transforming into his vehicle mode. “There’s no way we can beat the Terrorcons one-on-one, so our best bet is a typically hair-brained Downshift scheme. Come on!”

Armourhide fired one last salvo and transformed. Sports car and mini-truck hurtled out from the firestorm. Their attackers – Skid-Z and Wreckloose – scattered, giving them plenty of room. In the sudden silence, Rodimus could hear the whirring of gears and the churning of flesh. He knew the Mini-con and the moose lizard would be on their tails in a matter of seconds.

“He’s over dere,” Armourhide yelled. “I think I see… oh, _slag._ ”

With a thunder of engines and a hail of fire, a bat-wing shape streaked toward them. Rodimus swerved left, Armourhide right, both narrowly avoiding the napalm strike dumped on them from above. Sky Shadow – his alt mode an unholy mix of bat and military cargo plane – hurtled back toward the battle.

“Dat’s it,” Armourhide groaned. “Downshift’s scrap metal.”

“Will you pipe down?” Rodimus asked, pouring on the speed. “We don’t _know_ that, and I won’t believe it unless I see a body.”

“Oh, fer bootin’ up cold,” the commando groaned. “Face facts, fearless leader-in-training… our buddy is no longer among da living. You’ve seen what dat big creepy goon does to mechs! We’ll be lucky ta find enough o’ Downshift to scoop up!”

Rodimus ignored him – he had to – and screeched to a halt. He transformed and peered through the gloom for any sign of his comrade. _Primus, don’t let this be the end,_ he prayed silently. _Please. Not without Downshift and I getting to talk one last time, having a chance to…_

He shouldered the darkness and it yelped. “Watch it, will ya?”

“Downshift?”

The engineer stepped out into the light. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he complained, brushing dust and soot from his emerald bodywork. “Just peachy.”

Armourhide pulled up alongside them. “You look it,” he said as he transformed. “Light covering o’ dust, bit a rubble… yeah, anyone without a critical optic would easily believe you’d been tanglin’ with one of da biggest, ugliest, creepiest mechs this side a Megatron himself!” He leaned in close, leering. “Been hiding out again, buddy? Keeping yerself safe so’s ya can make it back to da lab again?”

Downshift matched the glare. “If you’ve got something to say, dwarf, then spill.”

“Aw’right, ya big palooka. I’m calling ya a no-good, dirty…”

Above them, the arch exploded. All further argument was drowned out – and forgotten – as the three Autobots dashed to safety. Rodimus and Downshift were separated from Armourhide by a thick column of smoke and landed, unceremoniously, on their faces.

Coughing and spluttering, the cavalier picked himself up off the floor. Movement caught his eye – Downshift was tucking a thin cylinder into a compartment on his leg. “What’s that?” Rodimus asked.

Downshift glanced up. His expression was one of panic. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Nothing at all. Forget it.” The engineer grabbed the pulse blasters from his shoulders and hefted them in both hands. “We’ve got a battle to win, right?”

Rodimus watched as the bulky mech charged back into the fray, snapping off shots at anything with a purple badge. He looked across the tunnel and caught sight of Armourhide; he was coated in concrete dust. They shared a look.

“Okay, so it’s weird,” Rodimus nodded. “We’ll keep an eye out, yeah?”

“An’ if we need to,” Armourhide added darkly, “we’ll take _him_ out.”

\-----

Fifteen hours, thirty minutes ago…

“It’s really simple, ladies and gentlemen – meteors _can not_ and _do not_ move like that. This is no glitch.”

Franklin did his best to stifle a yawn. Briefings were necessary, sure, but why were he and Junko trapped in this dull astronomy lesson? So a meteor being tracked by various space agencies had changed direction – _whoop a dee do._ That was hardly the sort of matter about which his employer should have cared.

“Extraterrestrial?” Junko asked.

That caught Franklin’s attention. His blue-haired partner had often teased him about his belief that aliens had secreted themselves amongst Earth’s population. For a couple of years, they’d been investigating incidents that, to him, pointed to the presence of mechanical life-forms. Junko had debated him at every turn and chalked each incident up to one of her two favourite explanations: mass hysteria and terrorist action. So to hear _that word_ escape her painted lips was quite a shock.

“Unsure at this time, but not impossible,” the man at the front of the room said. Franklin didn’t know his name – the guy was just another one of the faceless ‘white coats’ who kept the facility running – nor did he care to. In his five years working here, he’d learned it was best to take the names you were given and ask no more. He took in superficial details – red hair, scraggly beard, bad yellow tie – and went back to his boredom.

“Of course, we have no records of alien incursions on Earth,” the white coat continued, looking pointedly at Franklin, “but that doesn’t mean we can discount this phenomena. The media department is feeding the jackals a suitable cover story and, in the meantime, we’re to get to the bottom of it. On the boss’ orders.”

‘Boss’ – one word guaranteed to galvanise the room. Franklin’s apathy melted away. If the boss wanted this checked out then, by heck, it was important. Without a word, the meeting broke up. Further explanation was unnecessary – everyone knew what they had to do; whom they had to impress. Results were not only needed, they were expected as quickly as possible.

“Hit the street?” Junko asked, sliding up alongside Franklin. They’d covered half the corridor already.

“You’re the lady with the car,” he agreed. “Where you drive, I follow.”

Someone called their names, and they stopped. Mr Yellow Tie caught up to them, puffing just a little. For the first time, Franklin noticed how out of shape he was… and caught sight of the cookie crumbs in his beard. _Needs to hit the gym,_ he thought, flexing his own well-muscled stomach in a rare moment of ego. _Then again, we can’t all be ex-marines._

“You’re the specialists on civilian sightings, yes?” the white coat panted.

Junko groaned. Franklin tried to hide his excitement. “Allegedly,” he said.

The scientist gulped a mouthful of air. “Then I’m redeploying you. We just got a report from the city that sounds right up your alley. Downtown shoppers are reporting a 30-foot tall white wolf rampaging through the district.” He grinned. “And they’re saying it’s made of metal.”

\-----

Fifteen hours ago…

Koji woke up under a clear, blue sky and on a soft bed of green grass. It didn’t help.

Rolling stiffly to his feet, he realised he’d cried himself to sleep. How long had he been out? A quick check of his watch – two and a half hours. God only knew how far Snarl had gone by now; how much damage he’d caused.

How badly Koji had screwed up once again.

_Am I really that stupid?_ he wondered. He’d been suckered, good and properly, by an alien wolf from another world. Granted, that wasn’t a normal day in the life of a kid but surely there were warning signs. Snarl was, after all, just a machine – any intelligence he had was artificial. Like all robots. Right?

He ran his hands through his hair. The feeling in his stomach was really, really familiar. It had accompanied his first and last attempt at driving the car (the insurance premiums came out of his allowance); that time he cooked an action figure in the microwave (he stopped paying the insurance and bought a new one); the day he wiped his mother’s speech from the hard drive hours before she was due to give it (grounded for a month). It was the feeling of knowing you’d not only made a terrible mistake but that you had to _admit_ it to someone in authority.

Koji still didn’t trust the Autobots. He still didn’t believe they were as heroic as they claimed. And he was certain they didn’t care one bit about his kidnapped parents. But he had watched two of them fight off the Terrorcons – robots that became animals – and knew they could do that right, at least.

Snarl was a robot that became an animal. That made him the Autobots’ problem.

Sighing, regretting every moment of the last few hours, Koji turned toward Fortress Maximus and began the hour-long walk to the communications centre.

\-----

Fourteen hours ago…

He felt like he’d scalded his synthesiser. To Ultra Magnus, there were no words more shameful than “fall back”.

And yet he’d had to issue the order – six hours into the battle – or they’d all be dead. The vacuum guns had failed; the energy nooses had been turned against them; his mechs were exhausted. Under heavy fire from a seemingly unstoppable foe, the RIDs had transformed and retreated down one of the Global Space Bridge’s off-ramps.

_Retreated… more like “ran away screaming”,_ he thought sourly.

Magnus scanned the area. Downshift was working on Scattorshot, sealing the smaller mech’s wounds with some kind of poly-resin spray. Armourhide was glaring at the engineer – Magnus had no idea what _that_ was about. Jazz and Rodimus looked tired and their armour was scorched and blackened. Still, they were standing and their weapons were intact. The Autobots had won battles with far less before.

The _old_ Ultra Magnus would have withdrawn all the way back to base. He’d have then sat down and brooded, for hours, about his unsuitability for command roles. Heck, the _old_ Magnus would never have launched this sortie without running cap-in-hand to Grimlock, seeking reinforcements from Cybertron. But those days were long gone. _This_ Magnus solved problems.

“How many of the new guns are still working?” he wondered aloud.

“All of them,” Scattorshot grunted, flexing a stiff arm experimentally. “Th’ Terrorcons didn’t think enough o’ ‘em to even waste a round. We’re locked an’ loaded, fer all the good it’s done so far.”

“Heh,” Armourhide laughed mirthlessly. “Told ya.”

“You _do_ realise that ain’t no help, right?” Jazz snapped wearily.

“Quit yer gripin’, music man – ya still got both yer arms, don’tcha?”

“Enough!” Magnus barked, silencing any further argument. “The last thing any of us need, right now, is _useless bickering._ The next soldier who activates his synthesiser will find himself in the brig, understand?”

In the silence that followed, Magnus’ enhanced senses could hear the scurrying of distant feet. Claws scratched for purchase on smooth concrete and steel. Jet engines whined, guttural voices laughed. They were being _hunted._

“This is insane,” he said softly. “Actually, I’m wrong. You know what this is? _Disappointing._ Here I have four of the best troops produced by the Autobot army, plus Armourhide…”

The commando scowled.

“… and what are they doing? Giving up. Surrendering. Letting a bunch of whacked-out cyborgs get the best of them.” He rose up to his full height. “I wonder: what happened to the Autobot fighting spirit? Seems to me it just rolled over and _died_ , leaving behind a smelly, useless carcass.

“Scattorshot,” he said, pointing, “went toe to toe with Starscream, twice, and won. Rodimus looked Unicron in the face and beheaded the monster. Armourhide survived vorns in the occupied territories. Jazz has always been our premier covert operative – he was such a good Spychanger his chassis was upgraded. Downshift invented the very weapons that kept Iacon safe for nine million years.

“And now you’ve all had 10 years off. A cushy decade in which you put out forest fires, assisted with earthquake relief and chased down terrorists. Lives spent out of the limelight; helping those who couldn’t help themselves. Protectobots, not Autobots.” He spat on the ground. “You’ve all forgotten how to be soldiers.”

He could see his mechs getting angrier. Good. _Time to hit them hard._

“I came back to Earth because, on a personal level, I like it here,” he announced. “I like the environment, the people and culture. And I realise others of our kind will like those same things for different reasons. Where I see natural splendour and potential allies, the Terrorcons see resources to be consumed and slave labour. I will _not_ allow that to happen.” He paused, fixing them all with an accusing glare. “You lot, it would seem, couldn’t give a slag.”

The Autobots erupted. Scattorshot was on his feet, angrily pushing Downshift away and grabbing for his gun. Rodimus and Jazz shook off their fatigue and transformed, engines revving loudly. Armourhide was so furious that steam rose from his bodywork – his core temperature had to be off the scale. Each and every one of the RIDs was shouting over the other, howling down Magnus’ criticism.

“Oh, so now you’re ticked off,” the giant drawled. “Fine – _prove me wrong._ ”

\-----

Thirteen hours, thirty minutes ago…

The air was sweet. The fear was sweeter.

Humans scurried about his feet. So easily could he have squelched them beneath his feet, or sliced them with his claws. Not that there was any reason to do so. They were but flesh – they held no intrinsic worth – to be hunted on the boring days and ignored the rest of the time. Inferior beings, one and all. He bore them no malice but nor did he hold them in any regard.

And so Snarl restrained himself. He had no desire to become a hunted mongrel, forever fleeing from Ultra Magnus’s rage. Were he to harm a single human, the larger mech would launch a crusade to find and capture the wolf. Better he take his fun now, without bloodshed, and leave as little a trail as possible. With luck, Koji was dead – at the least, unconscious – giving him ample time to find a retreat.

There would be days and weeks for the hunt.

Though the humans were inferior and, by rights, beneath his notice, Snarl could not quell his curiosity. The dwellings around him seemed to be hunting grounds of some kind. Different forms of prey – rich food, coloured cloth, small plastic effigies of warrior humans – were displayed behind glass. Until his arrival, the fleshy masses had moved in and out of those domiciles, exchanging metallic discs and green paper for their prey. Now they ran screaming from his approach.

_What fools these humans be,_ Snarl wondered silently. _This is no way to hunt – it is cowardice! Why do they not take what they want, instead of bartering? Anyone could view this and know of their feebleness!_

An unexpected yet familiar sensation assaulted his metal skin. He could scarcely believe it. Earth had _ferroflies_ , too! The tiny vermin of Animatros must have, somehow, migrated across the stars. Snarl took perverse delight in the idea of, once again, having to watch his rivets and plating for the pests. It was another sign he was away from Cybertron, from the Autobots, and back in the real world.

“Hold it,” came a sound from far below. “Those were warning shots… the next ones go through something vital!”

The words were bold but the speaker lacked the courage to voice them properly. Snarl looked down and behind himself – there was a human there. It wore dark blue cloth and some kind of adornment on its head. Its shaking, upraised hands clutched a black metal tube. It took Snarl a moment to realise what he was facing.

“Is that a weapon?” he growled.

The human’s eyes widened. Glancing it over, Snarl theorised it was a female. _Often the deadlier of the species,_ he mused, _but hardly a threat to me._

“It is,” the human female said, again without conviction. “Stop where you are or I’ll fire again.”

Snarl threw his head back and laughed, giving the terrified female a good look at both his fangs and the inside of his jaw. “Your munitions are like the vermin of my world, human,” he said, not unkindly. “That is useful information to me. Add to that the amusement you have provided… and the nostalgia… and I have decided I shall allow you to live. Go now, or face _huntnomore_.”

He knew the word would hold no meaning for her – but his tone carried the darkest of implications. Snarl barked once, short and sharp, and the female ran. She dropped her weapon as she fled, and the wolf crushed it with the tip of one toe.

“Perhaps,” he said, glancing around at the frightened masses, “there’s no need for me to hurry away after all.”

\-----

Thirteen hours ago…

Wreckloose came first, as expected.

It could have been Battle Ravage on point, of course but Magnus had dismissed it as unlikely. Keen observation of Terrorcon battle tactics had given him a new insight.

Predacon, it seemed, played favourites.

In his report on the Battle of Iacon, Grimlock had said the Transmetal zealot had abandoned his master plan to save the life of a trooper. It was an odd bit of information – what Decepticon valued friendship over power? – that Magnus had filed away, just in case. Today, that piece of information had spawned a hypothesis.

It _could_ have been Battle Ravage at point but it _wasn’t,_ nor would it ever have been. The jaguar was one of Predacon’s favourites. So too were Cruel Lock and Divebomb – meaning increased security for their prisoner, after they’d won this battle. From what Magnus could tell, Wreckloose was viewed as a useful tool; Sky Shadow an intellectual rival and Insecticon a pest. Skid-Z was, of course, a Mini-con and so beneath any thought save that of a power source.

The individual shapes of the Terrorcons backed up his idea. The “core four” of the group – those who’d served under the late Scorponok – had flesh in strategic areas, rather than all over. Wreckloose looked like he’d been given a bucket and told to go nuts; Sky Shadow’s wings were a clear sign of vanity, and Skid-Z apparently wasn’t “worthy” of the Transmetal process.

With the pecking order clear in his mind, Magnus knew which Terrorcons they’d be facing, and in what order. He had a strategy. Now, it just had to work.

He watched Wreckloose’s long, forked tongue flit across the concrete. Like the animal from whom he’d stolen skin, the tracker “smelled” with his tongue. No doubt the organic senses were enhanced by Cybertronian sensors, but that was fine. Magnus _wanted_ to be found. The Terrorcons were looking for prey, and he would provide more than they could handle.

The moose lizard drew closer. He was two hundred metres away…one hundred and fifty… one hundred…

“Now!” Magnus yelled.

Rodimus sprang from the shadows, whirling an energy noose like a lariat. The device looped around Wreckloose’s scaly neck and pulled tight. As before the creature started to choke and, as before, began to transform to break the hold.

“Jazz, do it!” Magnus roared.

The black-ops expert melted from out the darkness and filled the air with orange globes. The sticky bombs rained down on Wreckloose’s half-transformed chassis and held fast, four or five congealing around the newly-revealed mouth of his robot mode.

A roar sounded in the half-light, but Magnus was ready. Battle Ravage was still a few metres away when he raised his vacuum gun and pulled the trigger. The jaguar coughed and, momentum now his enemy, crashed at the giant’s feet. Armourhide was there within seconds. A noose in one hand and a globe gun in the other, he tied and coated the cat just as easily as his friends had the lizard.

“No,” whispered a voice. “No, this is impossible!” Predacon came into view, the shock evident on his dinosaurian features. “You were broken, _humbled_! We had defeated you, so you can’t just…”

The rest of his speech was stolen from him. Scattorshot dropped down from the ceiling and onto his back, throttling him soundly with another energy noose. Downshift, still hanging from an archway, had the more sluggish Insecticon and the unsuspecting Sky Shadow drenched in orange bubbles.

“Hoi!” a tinny voice cried. “Leave my friends alone, ya big jerks!”

A tiny shape hurtled at Magnus. He caught it one-handed. “Hello, Skid-Z,” he smiled. “I applaud your dedication but, this time, you’ve picked the wrong opponent.”

“Need help! Need help urgently!”

Magnus sighed. “Don’t even _try_ that one on me, Mini-con,” he rumbled. “I’m holding you, not squeezing you. And if you think I’m going to loosen my grip…”

Skid-Z eyed him strangely. “I didn’t say _nothing,_ yutz! No one did!”

With a start, Magnus realised the source of the voice – the inter-Autobot radio. Confident his troops held the upper hand, he turned his attention to the secret waveband. The signal was weak, poorly tuned but definitely an Autobot frequency. Though a crackle of static, he could just make out a familiar voice.

“This is Koji calling the Autobots,” the boy said. Magnus could tell he was crying. “Something terrible’s happened… I’ve _done_ something terrible. Snarl tricked me, and now he’s on the loose in the middle of the city!”


	4. Chapter 4

Twelve hours, thirty minutes ago…

“Say again, Koji,” Ultra Magnus barked into his communicator. “Repeat status.”

It wasn’t the static that was corrupting the young boy’s transmission – it was his tears. “Snarl _tricked_ me,” Koji sobbed. Magnus could imagine his fragile saline tears dripping all over the microphone. “He fooled me, said he’d rescue my parents. We broke into Downshift’s lab and he got one of those circuits and he’s _gone outside_!”

“How long ago?” Magnus demanded. A little voice urged him to be calm, to go easy on the boy. He ignored it. _We gave this kid everything, took him in rather than leave him to the mercies of human social services,_ he sneered inwardly. _And this is how he repays us? Some ally. Even Kicker wasn’t this dumb._

“Five hours,” Koji gulped.

Magnus swore under his breath. Skid-Z, the Mini-con in his right hand, bore the brunt of his fury. The enemy mech gulped and shrieked as the Autobot’s hand tightened around his body, squeezing him into stasis lock. Magnus dropped the offline carcass.

“Koji, _go to your room,_ ” he growled down the line.

He heard a strangled sob as the channel closed. In his processor’s optic, he could see the crying boy running, near blind, through the corridors of Fortress Maximus. He tried – and failed – to care. There’d be time enough, later, to repair relationships. Right now, Magnus had hard decisions to make.

The battle had, at long last, swung in favour of the RIDs. Magnus cursed himself for not realising, earlier, Predacon’s immunity to surprise attacks. The Transmetal was a zealot, a religious nut. He was all-too used to squeezing the realities of the world through the prism of his perverse beliefs; ignoring what he had to in order to make his views ring true within his own mind. Predacon spent his entire life re-arranging events to suit his racism – his processor was perfectly suited to turning surprise attacks into ambushes.

Changing tactics had made all the difference. With their foes’ healing abilities severely retarded by the air-sapping devices, the Autobots had returned to conventional weaponry. For the first time since this fractured, unexpected conflict had begun, bombs and lasers were damaging the outnumbered Terrorcons as they should.

A quick scan of the battlefield showed his mechs had retained the upper hand. Scattorshot – ever-impressive as a field commander – had rallied the ‘bots while taking on Predacon himself. The half-track tank rode the Tyrannosaur as a cowboy would a bull. As he pumped shots into its back, he shouted orders – very effective ones – at Rodimus, Armourhide and the rest. _The "rolling arsenal" has it covered,_ Magnus thought with a sense of grim pride. _Which means the only one free to chase Snarl… is me._

He opened another internal communication channel. “Scattorshot,” he said, “I’m out. Unit Seven has breached protocol and invaded a human settlement – I’ll pursue and detain. Hold the line.”

“Understood,” the smaller mech drawled. “Good huntin’, Big Bot.”

Magnus paused long enough to fire a few more rounds into the melee – and add to Battle Ravage’s torment – before transforming. He locked his steering wheel to the left and jack-knifed around, making a beeline for the tunnel exit. He hurtled into the sunlight, dimming his windows against the sudden brightness, and fired up his sensor array.

His dashboard radio was far more helpful – every local station blared with news of the “white metal wolf” attacking shoppers in the downtown area. Apparently, it had move on to the faux-historic district near the waterfront.

“Terrific,” Magnus grimaced, wrenching his wheels to the right and heading for saltier climes. “Snarl, you damned idiot. We don’t have _time_ for this nonsense.”

\-----

Ten hours ago…

“Explain to me, won’t you, how _this_ is an effective use of my talents?”

Franklin stifled a sigh. He was glad his dark glasses hid his pained expression. Junko was the best agent in the group – of that there was no doubt. But her temper was as red hot as her hair was ice blue, and her patience was thinner than even the meagre scraping of make-up on her porcelain features. As he watched, she somehow managed to curse, change radio channels, drum on the steering wheel of her Dodge Viper, and ride the clutch in near-gridlock, slow-moving traffic… all at once.

“We’re partners, I get that – and at times you have your uses,” she snapped, damning him with faint praise. “But that’s _no_ reason to send _me_ out on this wild wolf chase! I’m sick and tired of _your_ personal crusade sidelining my career and my chances for advancement, Franklin. _Sick_ of it!”

He rolled his eyes. It was far from the first time he’d heard the speech. Franklin tuned his partner out and took a look around. The freeway was jammed in both directions, which was odd. You’d figure people would be trying to head _out_ of the city, away from the alien robot’s rampage, not _toward_ it.

One quick look into the cars surrounding him explained it all. The drivers and their passengers were uniformly geeky. Whether they be Goths or emos, computer nerds or part-time fantasy-land warriors, the geek culture was headed en masse to see a genuine, bona-fide alien manifestation.

“We’re surrounded,” he whispered. “This must be how Peter Mayhew feels.”

“Screw him,” Junko snarled. “Prick gets paid for _his_ personal appearances. You know that bastard wants $50 an autograph, just because he once walked around in a big, shaggy costume and grunted a few lines?”

Franklin looked at her. She caught his gaze and, amazingly, blushed. “Or so I’m told,” she muttered. “I wouldn’t know about that stuff.”

“Uh huh,” the male agent nodded. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“The fact of the matter is,” Junko continued, the redness fading from her cheeks, “we’re stuck in the middle of the great unwashed. And if they’re comic geeks as well, then they’re _really_ unwashed.” She sniffed, as if a foul odour had offended her nose. “Much as it pains me to say this, we’re going to have to abandon the car and walk if we’re ever going to sort out this garbage.”

Franklin already had his seatbelt off and his door open. He’d sprinted almost a hundred metres from the Viper before Junko caught back up. “I’d like to remind you,” she puffed, matching his stride, “that some of us are in _heels._ ”

“I’d swap my loafers for sneakers if I could, too,” he panted back. No matter how fit you were, talking and running always made you sound like a couch potato. “Maybe we could just suck it up and go see the alien, please?”

Junko scowled but said nothing.

Athletic though they were, it still took the agents the better part of an hour to clear the freeway and reach the city limits. The traffic was much thinner here – were it not for a bottle-necked off-ramp, they’d have encountered no problem – and they were able to make their way quickly toward downtown.

Junko’s red duster flapped in the breeze, reminding Franklin of a super-hero cape, as she rounded corners and took the streets down toward the waterfront. She actually overtook him for a minute or so and, when he caught up to her, she was standing dead still.

“If you quote me on this, I’ll eviscerate you,” she muttered absently, “but it could be you were right all along.”

Franklin looked up… way, way up… into the eyes of the impossible. The wolf stood 30 feet tall – it could have scratched its back on the sides of buildings – and its howl was like a sonic boom. He had to cover his ears and grit his teeth against the force of the noise. Junko fared little better – her designer sunglasses actually _shattered_ – and she dropped to one knee with a cry of pain. Their distress seemed to earn the wolf’s attention… and its amusement… because it turned toward them.

“They who do not run instantly are, most likely, hunter and not prey,” it said in perfectly-enunciated, if rumbling, English. “At least, within their natural habitat. The true test of a hunter is its ability to adapt to a _new_ predator. One that not only steals the hunter’s prey, but deems the hunter itself a worthy morsel on which to chew.”

It stooped low, locking yellow eyes with theirs. As it grinned, a long, drooling trail of motor oil slipped between its fangs and splashed onto the ground between them. Despite his fear, Franklin’s mind was in overdrive. _Motor oil… it’s mechanical! I was right – they are among us! But why would any robot choose an animal as a disguise?_

“So the question, human hunters, is how you will adapt to my presence. Or, perhaps, _if_ you can adapt to my presence. I have yet to injure any of your brethren, and have thus far abstained from sampling their meat. If you would, try and stop me from doing that which is my right, by virtue of might. If you _can._ ”

Junko recovered first. “Piss off, Lassie,” she growled.

She pulled an odd, wide-barrelled gun from her belt and fired one shot. The bullet – more of a miniature grenade – was red hot from the moment it left the chamber. Before impact, it shattered into a hail of super-heated fragments that dug into the wolf’s steel hide.

Shockingly, the alien creature howled in pain. Its mighty head reared back, then flopped onto the ground. Gunmetal-blue paws scrabbled at its nose, desperately brushing at the tiny, red-hot nails jutting from its snout and cheeks. It snapped and howled, shaking its head like the wild animal it mimicked. Franklin grabbed Junko and pulled her back, out of the way of the wolf’s frenzied movements.

“You’re carrying a sabot pistol?” he asked, incredulous.

“You should visit the armoury more often, upgrade that pea shooter you carry,” she winked. “New tech can save your life, you know.”

“But why would you even _have_ a gun like that in your holster?”

“You’re the one telling me we’re going to run into shape-changing alien robots,” she said simply. “I don’t believe you, but I don’t believe in being unprepared, either. This bitch can pierce the engine block of an F-22. It’s more than a match for Snoopy over there.”

Franklin just shook his head. Every time he thought he had Junko pegged, she surprised him with something else.

Gears ground and teeth flashed. Junko threw herself backward into Franklin, knocking them both to the ground. It was only just enough movement to avoid the snapping jaws of the robotic wolf. The agents sprinted back up the street, trying to put some distance between them and their irate pursuer.

“Twice now have I encountered the female of your species, humans,” it said, every syllable a threat. “I must say I am more impressed with this female than with the other. Is it something to do with your colouring, I wonder, that denotes your levels of courage? Should I be more wary of blue-and-red females than those of a blue-and-black hue? And what of the males – are you _all_ so worthless and cowardly? So full of prattle and devoid of spine?” That horrid grin stretched across its features once more. “I feel some _close study_ is in order, if only to answer my questions.”

Franklin didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Move,” he shouted, grabbing Junko’s arm and dragging her behind him. Around the corner, he spied a truck – for now, that would be a good hiding place.

Junko had other ideas. “Head for the truck,” she said, slipping from his grip and running toward the empty white cab. “Maybe we can drive it into the wolf!”

He nodded, convinced not only that she was crazy but that she was right. The sabot round had done some damage, but they’d need a sabot _cannon_ to stand up to their new pet. The truck might give them the edge. _Why is its engine running if no-one’s inside?_

“Dammit, it’s locked,” Junko gasped, pulling on the truck door’s handle with all her strength. Franklin pushed her aside and tried himself, but to no avail.

The ground shook as the wolf loped after them, knocking parked cars aside with sweeps of its long, bladed tail.

“Stand back,” a commanding voice boomed. “You’ve got the right idea, but this is best left to me.”

The truck’s engine rumbled to life and it moved off. Wide-eyed, Franklin saw the steering wheel turn by itself as the long vehicle picked up speed.

“Did that truck just drive off by itself?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Junko murmured, equally shocked. “I was too busy wondering how it was talking.”

They stood in the middle of the street, watching the truck race down the hill toward the wolf. The metallic animal paid it no mind – but only at first. Its expression twisted in fear and surprise. A moment later, the truck jammed on its brakes and jack-knifed, its car-carrier swinging out to the right and blocking the entire road. In plain defiance of physics, the truck continued _sideways_ down the street and collided with the wolf, taking its front legs out from under it.

The beast ploughed head-first into the asphalt. Several of its yellow teeth broke free and clattered away. The truck continued under the animal’s high belly and scythed through its hind legs. As the rest of the wolf gouged into the road, the truck completed its arc and pulled up, neat as a pin, facing the way it had come.

Franklin and Junko ran further back, yet again, as the wolf skidded to a stop behind them. The male agent realised they’d retreated all the way back to the bottle-neck. A chorus of shocked voices erupted from the trapped cars as drivers – geeky to a man – caught sight of a genuine extra-terrestrial.

“Snarl,” called a voice from the truck. It was the same one that had spoken to the agents. “This can end, right now. I’ll lower my tailgate and you can jump inside. We’ll be back at the base in a half hour, and we can sort this out. What do you say?”

The wolf’s response was more bark than actual words. The force of the sound threw some cars off the freeway’s ramp, and swept through Franklin like a hurricane. He lay on the ground, dazed, as the animal spoke. “I say I will not adopt the cowardly ways of your pack, Ultra Magnus,” it spat contemptuously. “If you wish to cage me again, your first task will be to tame me. And be assured you will fail in the attempt.”

“All right,” the truck sighed. “If that’s how it has to be.”

Franklin pulled himself to his feet… just in time, as it turned out. For all that he had seen today – all the impossibilities made real – nothing compared to the sight before him now.

In front of his very eyes, the car carrier fell into pieces and rearranged itself, rising higher and higher into the air. Like children’s blocks, pieces of the truck stacked on top of one another, re-sculpting into arms, legs and a torso. Tubing from the vehicle spun itself into a horrific-looking weapon, and platforms from the truck stretched out as wings. From the recesses of what had been the cab rose a head, covered by a blue helm and topped with an insignia the agent didn’t recognise but knew he would never forget. Whatever else it meant, that was the symbol of _vindication._

“May Evac forgive me for what I have done, and for what I am about to do,” the iron giant thundered as it levelled its gun at the wolf. “Snarl… it’s _over._ ”

\-----

Eight and a half hours ago…

Predacon dug his claws into the concrete and snapped his spine like a whip. Scattorshot flew into the air like an annoying tick from his back. Fighting to ignore the pressure around his throat, Predacon clamped his jaws shut over the Autobot’s noose. Serrated teeth made short work of the line, severing it and cutting Scattorshot free. The small mech sailed away, crunching to a halt against a rainbow-coloured wall.

“Irritating Autobot insect,” the Tyrannosaur growled. Machine guns, mounted in his fingers, flared to life. He peppered Scattorshot with a dozen rounds as the blue robot dropped to the floor. Satisfied his enemy was down for the count, Predacon transformed.

In all his long years of warfare, he’d never experienced such changing fortunes. Nor had he seen such utter determination on the part of his foes. The Autobots simply _would not_ surrender the Global Space Bridge. Should they lose this battle, Predacon knew his enemies would simply return with another strategy, another gimmick, and rush through the tunnel system once more.

“The only way for us to claim our prize is to win this day,” he muttered to himself. “A single Autobot, if left alive, will return to vex us. And so the only choice left open to me, and to the True Path, is to grind them to dust here and now.”

With a bestial roar, Predacon charged into the thick of the fighting. His tail-whip snapped left and right, striking out at the Autobots. But his targets – relatively uninjured, compared to him – were too nimble and danced out of range. Predacon grunted and fell to one knee as Jazz showered him with rocket grenades and wreathes of flame.

_It’s no use,_ he was forced to admit to himself. _Those blasted weapons have worked too well. All the blessings of the Transmetal process… the healing power of organic matter merged with the strength of steel… have been robbed from us. My followers and I are little more than normal Decepticons now – and we are sorely outnumbered. Loathe though I am to say it, retreat may be our only option._

Predacon clawed his way free of the fire and staggered into a clear spot. Looking around, he called out to his true believers. “Those of the Path,” he shouted, hoping he could be heard over the sounds of warfare. “I bid you…”

Suddenly he fell, an unbearably loud sound puncturing his aurals and shaking his bolts loose. Predacon bounced and tumbled along the Global Space Bridge, bashing into similarly unbalanced Autobots and Terrorcons as he went. Ten voices cried out in shock and terror, their distress matching Predacon’s own. The rainbow-coloured walls around them seemed to bulge and pulse, casting nauseating shadows all around.

Finally, blessedly, the noise stopped. It echoed throughout the tunnel network, merging with the static inside Predacon’s head. Autobots and Terrorcons were tangled around one another; weapons cast adrift and scattered around them. The few lights that remained in the GSB had gone out and, with a start, Predacon realised all natural light had been shut off, too. The tunnel exit, before which they had been fighting, had sealed over.

“What just happened?” Armourhide squeaked.

“I feel like a truck hit me,” Skid-Z moaned. “Again, I mean.”

“You freaks packing some kind of new ordnance we don’t know about?” Rodimus asked, his forearm blasters powering up once more.

“Like we’d tell you about it, Autobot filth,” Wreckloose sneered, wielding his antler shield menacingly.

“Aw’right, everyone jus’ calm down a minute,” Scattorshot called. The small Autobot was picking himself up off the floor, brushing machine gun bullets from his armour. “Ain’t no amount o’ fighting that’s gonna explain what just happened.” He turned toward the True Path’s leader. “Right, Predacon?”

The Tyrannosaur regarded the Autobot quizzically. _Is he proposing a truce? Even a temporary cessation of hostilities defies logic. They have the upper hand and, even in these circumstances, some measure of home field advantage. Unless…_ He grinned. _Of course. Self-confidence is not a common Autobot virtue. With Ultra Magnus gone, the Autobots lack a leader capable of reacting to the unexpected. A leader such as myself._ Predacon couldn’t help but laugh. _Scattorshot is terrified. This isn’t a cease-fire as much as it is a plea for help. Little fool. Saurians can’t be trusted._

“But of course, Scattorshot,” he crooned, trying to sound subservient. Insecticon shot him a disgusted look and he winked, quickly, to convey his intent. No matter his inadequacies, the bug was at least capable of grasping a plan and kept silent. “Co-operation, at least for now, could be essential to our survival.”

“More than you might realise,” Downshift interrupted. The engineer – creator of the hated strangulation weapons – looked concerned. “The GSB has gone into lock-down. All the exits will have sealed off, so there’s no way back to the surface. We’re effectively stuck in Transwarp space.”

“Is that really a big problem?” Insecticon buzzed.

“Oh yeah,” Downshift replied, his tone oddly strained. “For one; the GSB only locks down in the event of planetary catastrophe. So odds are that tremor wasn’t a standard earthquake, meaning something bad has happened topside. Two; the longer we’re sealed in here, the less chance we have of finding Energon and refuelling… something we’ll all need to do after hours and hours of fighting.” He stopped.

“What are you not saying, Autobot?” Predacon demanded.

Downshift frowned. “Three; when the GSB goes into lock-down, all of its ventilation turbines switch off. Which means that, shortly, this tunnel system is either going to be a complete vacuum… or so full of carbon dioxide that _none_ of us will be able to function any more.”

\-----

One hour ago…

A world of darkness brightened to static. Essential systems rebooted; subroutines began their cycling all over again. Magnus winced, experimentally flexed his arms and tried to stand. Something laying across his back stopped him; it wasn’t until he managed to shove it off that he realised the object was a fallen skyscraper.

“Primus, no,” he whispered.

The scene was one of utter devastation. What had been a bustling section of metropolis was a veritable graveyard of architecture. Broken fingers of buildings reached mournfully for the sky, their girders and concrete dropping to the ground like over-ripe fruit. Cars, trucks and, worst of all, human bodies lay everywhere, tempest-tossed.

_What happened?_ he wondered, pulling himself up to standing. His last memories were of facing Snarl. But that had been more than seven hours earlier, according to his internal chronometer.

Unlike humans, Transformers could access sensor readings taken while offline. The gaps in his memory could be filled instantly, just by running another program. He did so… and gasped.

Meteorological analysis revealed a massive disturbance in the upper atmosphere, seconds after he had brought Snarl down. A tap on human emergency communications registered a panicked warning – fears of a meteorite somehow _defying_ friction burn and heading, fully intact, for the city. Thermometers charted the sharp, sudden increase in temperature; cooling systems had redlined just to keep his chassis from melting. He’d registered the impact seismically but it had been too great for his systems to endure, and they had shut down in protest. He’d been in a stasis lock deeper than any he’d known.

“Ow,” he groused as he tried to walk. Magnus’ body was feeling the effects. His entire chassis was dented and warped – one knee was badly buckled – thanks to the shock wave. The intense heat had stripped paint from his form and, amazingly, melted the barrels of his mini-gun. _No help from Blue Bolts forthcoming,_ he thought.

Small fires had broken out everywhere. Some were so tiny, Magnus realised, that they could only be smouldering human corpses. The loss of life sickened him. His Spark was heavy with grief and loss – even as he realised there was nothing he could have done. He’d pursued Snarl to this location to save lives, but even an Autobot warrior couldn’t stop a natural catastrophe on this scale.

“Natural catastrophe,” he muttered. “So where are the rescue workers?”

Aside from the dead, there were no humans in the area. Magnus briefly wondered if the two who’d tried to commandeer him – the black man and the blue-haired woman – had survived. He hoped so, but doubted it. Maybe he should check under some of the rubble, see if _anyone_ managed to live through the…

He heard a crash, followed by a howl, coming from the south. Magnus turned and ran in the direction, favouring his bad knee but determined not to let it stop him. Another being had survived and, with a crash like that, would need help. That was something he _could_ do, no matter his own damage.

The sight that greeted him, rising from out a cloud of concrete dust, was unexpected. Snarl, his lupine body sparking and twisted, crawled out of a ruined department store and howled. His steel hackles rose as golden fangs ground against his jaw – several of them were jagged and broken. The wolf’s eyes were locked on a large, dark shape on the other side of the cloud… one all-too familiar to Magnus.

It was a robot… another Transformer. The mech was almost as tall as Magnus but much broader, with protruding shoulders. Its legs were tank treads and its feet scoop-shovels; similar excavation blades substituted for its hands, making a claw-like configuration.

_The details are right,_ Magnus thought, _but the colouring is wrong._ Black stretched across metalwork that should be green; highlights were of shimmering gold and blood-red crimson, not orange and purple. Yet there was no mistaking the being decimating Snarl for anyone other than Scorponok – the Decepticon field commander who had died, more than a decade earlier, during the Unicron Battles.

Scorponok had been of that most rare breed: the honourable Decepticon. Like Thundercracker, the long-tailed war machine adhered to codes of battle and conduct alien to most of his brethren. That had made Scorponok something of an ally during the Chaos Bringer’s assault, and his loss was still mourned, privately, by Optimus Prime.

_It’s not just the colouring that’s wrong – it’s the attitude._ Scorponok had been a careful strategist and a thinking mech’s warrior. This black-and-gold brute was little more than a crazed beast; a zombie berserker. Scorponok lashed out not only at Snarl, but at anything in the wolf’s immediate vicinity. Magnus hated to think how many more humans might have been killed by the yelling, screaming, drooling monstrosity.

Still, he was but one mech. The devastation… the dust and soot blackening the air… was beyond even Scorponok’s extensive capabilities. And though the monster had a secondary alt mode – that of a starship – it would scarcely be able to rupture the atmosphere; be capable of landing with such crushing impact. There had to be more to this situation that met the eye.

Magnus picked his way through the ruins. He didn’t have to go far to get his answer. Water dripped from an enormous chunk of ice and pooled at his feet. The crystal was a half-sphere… and its matching piece sat a few hundred metres to the right. Magnus ruminated on the contradictory nature of science – here, a massive ball of ice had generated enough heat to incinerate the downtown area. Were the situation different, he might have found it ludicrous enough to laugh.

But the situation was tragic, fatal and, for the living, eminently deadly. For Magnus could see, within the centre of the ice halves, indents. Had he wax to pour into the lower indent, he could have cast a perfect replica of Scorponok’s vehicle mode. But the “mould” above it… the one that looked like a being _straddling_ the vehicle, riding it like a surfboard… was unfamiliar. Magnus couldn’t place it.

His sensors blared as the temperature around him soared. Too late, the Autobot moved to dodge the incoming fireball. The conflagration caught him square in the back and lifted him from his feet, then dumped him on the ground.

Magnus rolled with the impact and stood back up. A second blast, this one of frigid cold, slammed into his already weakened knee. He managed one step… two… and then cried out in pain. Something – or someone – had run past him, too fast to see, and driven some kind of weapon into the frozen joint. His knee blew out, hydraulics failing catastrophically, and he knew that, this time, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

A salvo of alternating hot and cold blasts splintered his armour and cracked his chassis, driving him ever further down to the ground. He roared in agony until his synthesiser malfunctioned and shut down, rendering him mute. Another savage blow, again with the weapon, thundered across the back of his neck and laid him out flat. Somehow, he kept hold of his rifle.

Seconds, perhaps minutes, passed. Self-repair routines began to activate, and Magnus’ optics came back online. Groggy, still without a voice, the leader of the Earthforce raised his pained head and looked upon his attacker. All at once, the many mysteries… the ice, the fire, the weapon, the odd shape in the meteor… were answered. All at once, the horror that had been building within his Spark exploded.

The creature before him was his equal in side and breadth, and his superior in power. Three spine-like wings jutted from each of its shoulders, framing the serpentine heads sprouting writhing on either side of its neck. Its tapered torso ended in lithe, muscular legs that were adorned with spurs and talons. Its clawed hand clutched an impossibly long flail, its blade composed of diamond-hard ice.

Once again, the details were right but the colours were wrong. Magnus had read the reports; his vision of terror was all burnished orange, fiery red and coal black. This being was painted in indigo, arctic blue and silver. Its cruel face was framed with gold, and its fangs were the steely grey of death itself.

Despite the contradictions, there was no mistake… this was Flame Convoy, the fallen god of Animatros. And all at once, the weakened, tired, pummelled, overtaxed Ultra Magnus knew, with dreadful certainty, that he was going to die.


End file.
